“And was it this haruspex who prophesied such a lavish funeral? Let me guess: you will die at a ripe old age? After a happy life? Famous and wealthy?” asked Reynevan. “Let me guess: you pay him generously? You provide for his family, his friends and relatives?”

“You mock in vain,” said the duke and grew serious. “The prophet didn’t prophesy for gain or to flatter, for he wasn’t afraid to prophesy things for which I almost had him torn apart by horses. He prophesied that… Oh, it’s none of your business. In any case, what is to be, will be. You can’t change destiny.”

“But one can direct destiny.”

“And that—to be honest—is what I’m hoping,” said Wołoszek. “The sorcerer, indeed, divined for me from a duck’s guts a long and prosperous life, then my death as a famed and respected man followed by a sumptuous funeral. But I shan’t rest on my laurels for that reason, I won’t wait idly by to receive the happiness I’ve been divined. I want to direct destiny. The world has stopped at a crossroads, as you are only too aware. Silesia is also at a crossroads. I know up to a point what I want to do, I’ve almost made a decision. But before that I wanted to meet you, comrade. That’s why I asked for you to be part of the mission. I trust you.”

Reynevan sipped the Hungarian wine but didn’t comment.

“Exactly a year ago,” Wołoszek went on, “by the Stradunia, where, as today, the first shoots are appearing on the willows, you told me about a revolution. About the unrelenting chariot of history sweeping away the Old in its flight to make way for the New. You advised me to join the victors, since it is woe to the vanquished, while glory, power and might await the conquerors. You presented me with visions.

“A year has passed. Today is Easter Saturday, tomorrow Easter Day. Bedřich of Strážnice, an envoy of Prokop, has come. With an offer, a concrete proposition. I want to know: is it an honest game, Reynevan? Should I enter into an alliance with Prokop and Korybut?

Bolko Wołoszek, Lord Głogówek, heir to the Duchy of Opole, a Piast among Piasts, fixed Reynevan with a piercing gaze.

Reynevan didn’t lower his eyes.

“By allying myself with the Tábor,” the duke asked gravely, “will I mount the chariot of history or descend into the abyss? What is this eagerly awaited New World that is now dawning? A paradise? Or an apocalypse that declares: ‘Woe will befall the victors as much as the vanquished?’ Should I ally myself with Prokop and Bedřich, with their cause and their faith? Put your hand on your heart, Reinmar, look me in the eyes, and answer as a friend to a friend, as a university comrade. Answer with one word: yes or no? I await your answer anxiously.”

From sunrise, Easter Sunday greeted Głogówek with sunshine, spring warmth and birdsong. Bells rang and the Resurrection procession set off.